This Pun Is Justified

There they were, on set, near midnight. The day had been wasted. The director, the producer, the writer--all agreed that the day's rushes weren't even looking at.

The star remained quiet, arms crossed, his lips pressed into a thin line, his Stetson tilted at such an angle that his eyes, no doubt blazing, were hidden. He stood in the shadows, listening. 

The crew argued among themselves, trying to spread the blame. The script was unpolished. The direction was pedestrian. The major stunt of the day looked cheap and fake. The catering had spoiled, throwing everyone off. 

In short--they danced around the main issue. 

The man in the Stetson knew the final responsibility came down to him. His pacing had been off, his delivery flat, his timing all wrong. Even his body language was uncharacteristically stiff. 

In the end, a brave and possibly foolish production assistant, all of 21 years old, cleared her throat. 

All eyes--even the ones in shadow--turned to her. 

"Maybe it's not my place, but..." 

She paused. 

"I think we need to start talking about the Olyphant in the room."